Harry, still reeling from the shock of his wizarding heritage and Hagrid's sudden, dramatic appearance, carefully untied the thin red string binding the parchment. He unrolled the dry, magically protected paper and began to read the familiar handwriting.
Dear Harry:
Seeing this letter feels almost as good as seeing you in person. You must have received quite a shock tonight, wouldn't you agree?
From the very first day I saw you at school, I was aware that you were the famous Harry Potter of our wizarding world. Every child raised in our society grows up hearing the legends about you, and I was certainly no exception.
However, due to the strict mandates from the Ministry of Magic and the Headmaster of Hogwarts, I must sincerely apologize for not being able to reveal my own wizarding heritage to you earlier. I earnestly hope that this necessary secrecy—which I assure you was well-intentioned—does not, in any way, jeopardize the true strength of our friendship.
I have also received my official acceptance letter to Hogwarts.
We need to travel to Diagon Alley tomorrow to acquire our school supplies. I plan to go with my family then. If you are also free to come, please send a message back with my owl, Edward. If tomorrow isn't convenient, simply let me know the day you'll be there, and I will arrange to meet you.
Your loyal friend, Allen
The author's internal scream after typing that last line: This is simply fulfilling Owen Harris's strategic request, not begging! The protagonist of this story is not begging for friendship! He is not being defensive!
Harry was instantly caught in a dizzying emotional tug-of-war. On one hand, he was flooded with relief and thrill that he would continue his education alongside Allen—the one constant, true friend in his miserable life. On the other, he felt a sharp stab of betrayal. His best friend, whom he truly considered a brother, had harbored such a monumental secret.
Yet, having just absorbed a crash course in wizarding common sense from Hagrid, and being naturally sensitive to sincerity after years of navigating the Dursleys' deceit, Harry immediately understood Allen's position. The Ministry of Magic was the ultimate authority; Allen's hands were tied.
He borrowed a stubby, ink-stained pen from Hagrid and, using the back of the heavy parchment, scribbled a reply:
Dear Allen:
I am absolutely thrilled that we will be going to the same school, and no amount of Ministry secrecy could ever change our friendship.
Hagrid (the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts) is taking me to Diagon Alley tomorrow morning to pick up my supplies. We will catch up on everything when we meet then.
Your best friend, Harry
Harry then noticed that Hagrid had meticulously dried the owl—Edward was preening, his feathers fluffed up and surprisingly clean—and had been feeding him sausage meat mixed with generous amounts of crunchy corn kernels.
"I've got a knack for caring for creatures, see? I look after all sorts at Hogwarts. Dumbledore trusts me quite a bit with 'em," Hagrid mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant, but the immense pride in his face was obvious.
Harry approached and handed over his hastily scrawled parchment. Edward the owl, demonstrating remarkable professionalism, immediately extended his left leg, patiently waiting for Harry to secure the reply. Hagrid swung the window open.
The earlier wind and rain had subsided into a calmer, cool night, and a few tentative stars pricked the darkness. Edward, carrying Harry's immense relief and boundless joy, flapped his powerful wings and soared into the quiet night.
The following morning, Morgan LeFay Harris, buzzing with the excitement of a grand shopping trip, deliberately rose early to ensure breakfast was ready and urged the entire family to wake.
"Hurry up, Len, Daisy! We have a colossal list to get through today!" Witches, like their Muggle counterparts, shared a universal, intense enthusiasm for retail therapy—a common thread spanning both communities.
After a swift breakfast, and at his mother's insistence, they utilized the pre-arranged Portkey to transport themselves directly into the gilded, echoing marble hall of Gringotts Wizarding Bank in Diagon Alley. After a smooth withdrawal of Galleons, Mrs. Harris efficiently delegated tasks to her older children:
"Len, you handle all the required potion ingredients and herbs. Daisy, you and your father will manage the books and the cauldron. Allen, I will personally escort you to choose your wand first, and then we will all rendezvous at Madam Malkin's Robe Shop—Madam Malkin's is simply the best! I insist on a neat, presentable uniform for your first year!"
Allen, heading straight for Ollivander's, suspected his mother's true agenda was simply to kill time before she could dedicate herself to the superior quality of Madam Malkin's robes.
Garrick Ollivander's wand shop was small, dusty, and slightly dilapidated, its small gold lettering peeling to proclaim: Ollivander's, Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. A solitary, pale wand rested alone on a faded purple cushion in the grime-caked display window.
As they entered, a faint, metallic jingling echoed from the back. The interior was tiny, containing only one high-backed bench for customers. Thousands upon thousands of long, narrow boxes, stacked precariously almost to the ceiling, filled the space. Allen consciously regulated his breathing; the shop was unusually quiet, especially for a rush day.
"Good morning. You are my very first customers today. I am Garrick Ollivander," a soft voice murmured. An old man, pale and striking, suddenly appeared from behind the counter, his large, milky eyes fixed on Allen, seeming to measure him up and down.
Noticing Allen's momentary surprise, Ollivander complained softly, "Most wizards, strangely, visit all the other shops first, leaving the wand—the single most important tool a wizard owns!—for last. I simply cannot fathom the logic."
His pale eyes then darted to Morgan LeFay Harris. "Ah, mahogany and phoenix feather, eighteen inches, a particularly beautiful wand, ideal for transfiguration spells. If my memory serves me, Miss Harris, it has been quite some time since your last visit!"
"Ah, of course, Mr. Ollivander. Your memory is as brilliant as ever," Mrs. Harris replied graciously, playing along with the ritual for the third time in her life.
Ollivander's gaze sharpened, his voice dropping slightly. "Do not forget to keep it polished regularly!"
"Of course, of course, I am very diligent. This is my youngest son, Allen. I brought him today to choose his first wand," Mrs. Harris quickly redirected the wandmaker's intense focus by gently pushing Allen forward.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Harris, let us see." Ollivander produced a long, silver-marked tape measure. "Which arm do you use for your wand?"
"I write with my right hand," Allen replied. "If I may, Mr. Ollivander, does your surname imply that your family line traditionally favored olive wood wands? 'Ollivander' sounds rather like 'olive wand'."
"Ah! A clever little wizard! You might be destined for our Ravenclaw! But please, lift your arm. Good." The measuring tape, thankfully, was self-operating, eliminating the need for the eccentric old man to touch Allen.
The tape measure whirred, measuring the distance from his shoulder to his fingertips, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and even around his head circumference. Allen, despite knowing these measurements seemed arbitrarily detailed, cooperated fully, hoping to subtly narrow the wandmaker's initial range of suggestions. He was prepared for a long, arduous trial; fictional heroes always required dozens of attempts before finding their match.
Ollivander, pacing among the towering shelves, ignored the tape measure when it dropped to the floor and coiled into a ball. "Try this, Allen. Beechwood and Hippogriff Sinew. Thirteen inches, quite sturdy. Beech wands are prized for their artistry and possess a reputation for excellence rarely matched. However, they are notably ineffective against individuals who are narrow-minded or intolerant. Wave it, if you please."
Allen gave it a flick, and with a sudden BANG, a distant, dusty display case shattered. Well, at least that confirms I'm not narrow-minded or intolerant, Allen thought, slightly alarmed.
Ollivander nodded with eerie satisfaction. "Nine Galleons."
"Er… wait! Mr. Ollivander… may I try again? That didn't feel quite right," Allen stammered, surprised the selection process was so swift. He wanted the ceremonial, epic process he had read about—otherwise, he felt he would cheat himself of the true wizarding experience.
"Hmm? Why? Very well, if you insist… Ah, you wish to sample the breadth of wand magic, don't you? Then try this: Applewood and Unicorn Hair. Ten inches. Apple wands are uncommon; they possess great power, particularly suited for those with grand ideals and aspirations. They are not suited to Dark Magic, and their owners are said to be much loved and long-lived. I have observed that those who bond with Applewood often possess immense personal charisma."
Ollivander, while clearly baffled by Allen's insistence, explained the wand properties in far greater detail than he typically offered young wizards. He went on to describe the core: "Unicorn hair is the most consistent for charm work and least prone to fluctuations. Unicorn-cored wands are the most loyal and the least likely to turn to the Dark Arts. They possess one minor drawback: if severely mishandled, the unicorn hair can 'die,' requiring replacement."
But just as Allen's fingers reached for the elegant wand, Ollivander snatched it back. "No. Don't touch that. Not this one." He gave Allen an unnervingly strange look.
Allen felt a prickle of discomfort. Is this old man implying that my inner nature is leaning toward becoming a Dark Wizard?
Ollivander then had Allen try wand after wand. This time, the rejected wands clearly featured cores or woods with a bias toward powerful, perhaps darker, magic. Allen found he could handle each one expertly, causing a minor magical commotion with every attempt, but none provided the necessary perfect connection—or rather, Ollivander never allowed any of them to settle.
Ollivander, initially amused, now had small beads of sweat forming on his pale brow. "Mr. Harris, I am unsure if you are particularly demanding or simply unusually accepting, but at the very least, you possess a rare talent: you can temporarily utilize nearly any wand without suffering the usual weakening of the spell or inability to cast it." He thought for a moment, then retreated to the back room, returning with a box wrapped in soft, deep-blue silk.
Allen was secretly pleased with this assessment of his talent. He never understood why wizards bragged about being picky with wands; to be limited by one's tool seemed a failing, not a point of pride.
"Try this. Mahogany and Phoenix Feather." Ollivander carefully lifted the wand. It was a dark, purplish-red color, the wood sleek like polished rhinoceros horn, and it seemed to thrum faintly.
The moment Allen's fingers closed around the handle, a profound, undeniable feeling arose within him—a feeling of absolute wholeness, as if the wand were a missing extension of his own will. Golden-red sparks shot forth from the tip, celebrating the encounter in synchronization with Allen's thoughts.
Ollivander, his pale eyes wide with genuine astonishment, began the explanation, his voice trembling slightly. "Mahogany is extremely transfigurable, strong, durable, and fiercely protective. Phoenix feather is the rarest of the core materials. While it takes longer to reveal its power than unicorn hair or dragon heartstring, it is capable of the widest range of magic. It possesses the strongest innate will, a trait many find difficult to manage. Phoenix feather wands are always the most selective, as the Phoenix—the creature that provides the feather—is the most fiercely independent creature in the world. They are the most difficult to tame, often requiring the greatest loyalty from their master to truly flourish."
Ollivander blinked, staring at Allen. "Wonderful. You are destined for truly great things, Mr. Harris. The wood for this wand was harvested from the property of German Muggle royalty in the early 20th century. It has remained here for almost a century, waiting for the correct core to be found and for the right wizard to claim it. You are the very first person to wield this wand with such authority."
Allen offered the necessary polite response, but internally he decided he would never return to this shop unless absolutely forced to. He remembered the rumors of Ollivander's children dying young; the wandmaker's intense focus on him likely stemmed from a desperate desire for an apprentice or successor.
They paid the thirteen Galleons for the unique wand and its necessary maintenance kit. Mr. Ollivander, still bowed with respect, led them out of the shop.
[System Reminder: Do you wish to create your own unique, expandable magic wand? Complete the limited-time emergency quest to obtain the ancient alchemist Jebbe's Alchemy Guide.]